Merry Christmas, and No Drag
by pellaz
Summary: Bart is feeling considerably less than Christmasy as he contemplates his duty.


Merry Christmas, and No Drag  
  
A Xenogears fanfic  
  
Nighttime in Aveh; cold, crisp, clear. Bart tipped his head back and swallowed the mouthful of vodka he'd shot, closing his eyes as the liquid trailed burning down his throat. He coughed, cursed, wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. "Fucking *shit*," he rasped, spitting out the rest of the mouthful over the railing of the balcony. He set the bottle down on the rail with a harsh sound and kept his head tilted back, staring at the sky, more interested in it than he had been in a while.  
  
Soft footsteps on the landing behind made him tense, but he relaxed as he recognized the voice that accompanied them. "Young master?"  
  
"Yeah, Sig." Bart glanced over his shoulder at his half-brother, who stepped hesitantly out of the light of the doorway into the cold, dark chill of the balcony. Sig had been celebrating; his jacket was gone, probably tossed over a chair somewhere, his hair ruffled, his eyepatch at an odd angle on his face. But now, for some inexplicable reason, he was here--just like he always was. Just like he'd always been.... Irritated by the sudden insight the bottle had given him, Bart hitched up the vodka and tossed it over the balcony.  
  
Sigurd cocked his head as he saw it go flying, but said nothing; just stepped up beside Bart, keeping a careful distance. He placed his hands on the railing. "Beautiful night," he said quietly. "The stars are so bright."  
  
Bart snickered. "Yeah, so damn *bright* they're giving me a motherfucker of a headache."  
  
Now a note of disapproval snuck into Sigurd's voice. "Well, I'm not surprised."  
  
"Save me the lecture, Mother." Bart cradled his head in his hands. "Are Jessie and the doc here?" he asked abruptly.  
  
Sigurd glanced over at him. "Everyone's here," he said after a pause. "Jessie and Hyuga, yes, but--Fei, Elly, Billy...."  
  
He sighed, melancholy. "Here for the wedding next week, huh."  
  
"No. They're here for Yule."  
  
Bart blinked. "Oh. Yeah. That. I'd forgotten."  
  
"Had you?" Sigurd asked gently. "Isn't that why you're out here? The stars are so much more beautiful on Yule--I believe it was you who told me that, one night." He chuckled. "Drunk as you were, at the time."  
  
"Somehow they seemed a lot more beautiful when I was fifteen," Bart said.   
  
"I think you were a bit more free then."  
  
His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Free? Gee, Sig, I don't know what you mean. Aren't I free now?"  
  
"Only you can decide whether or not you're free, young master."  
  
"Bull*shit*!" He wished he hadn't thrown that bottle--he needed something to break right now. "All my life it's been other people making choices for me all the time, but at least--well, at least it wasn't so damn *obvious* then, you know, Sig? At least I had an illusion of freedom. Now, though...." His shoulders slumped. "I can't do anything about it," he muttered. "There's no use getting worked up over it."  
  
"Oh, young master...." Sigurd reached out to touch his shoulder, then paused--let it fall back to his side. "There are *always* choices," he insisted, "even in situations where you are not completely in charge...."  
  
"Then why do I feel so *helpless*?"  
  
"Because that's something you have to realize about life," said Sigurd. "That you can't always be in control. You've never learned how to manipulate the circumstances to your advantage, and if that was my fault I apologize, but I *did* try. There were so many things to teach you...." He sighed. "Forgive me, young master. There are so many things I should have done that your parents would have."  
  
Bart smiled in spite of himself. "It's not your fault you're not my dad, Sig."  
  
Sigurd smiled as well, humorlessly. "I can't help but feel as if it is, though. My whole life is full of regrets... most of them, of course, involving you." He reached out and rested his fingers on Bart's eyepatch. "My mother tried very hard to teach me how to be an honorable man," he said softly, "but where you are concerned, I always seem to be--lacking, somehow."  
  
Bart shifted away. "Yeah, well... join the pity club. Extra sessions here at Fatima Castle, free of charge." He snorted a little, then looked back up at the sky. "Hey," he said, tilting his head a little. "Sig. Remember the night after we both lost our eye, and we were out here looking at the stars?"  
  
Sigurd made a face. "Trying to look at them, you mean?" he corrected. "And not doing a very good job of it?"  
  
"Yeah, well, they were a little fuzzy, weren't they?" Bart said. "I remember you trying to tell me that one cluster of stars was the Big Dipper, and I wasn't having anything of it."  
  
"They *were* the Big Dipper, though!" Sigurd exclaimed, laughing. "I distinctly remember pulling Maison out here and getting him to tell us which stars were which." He pointed at the sky. "There it is, right there. The Big Dipper."  
  
"Pretty magnificent," Bart said under his breath. "God, I love the desert."  
  
"Mmm." Sigurd nodded his agreement. "Often, in Solaris, I would go out onto the observatories and watch the sky, and think about how beautiful the stars were from there... so high above the world. But they're much more beautiful down here. From the kingdom." He turned to smile at Bart. "From home. Remarkable how much of a difference that makes, isn't it?"  
  
Bart thought about that, then nodded. "The first night after we reclaimed the castle... when we were having our talk, you know?" Sigurd nodded, and Bart ducked his head and smiled. "It seems a little weird now, but when I was walking down to talk to you, all I could think about was how great it was to be home. Like, how different the sky seemed from the castle. I wasn't mad at all, you know, that night. I... guess I'd always known."  
  
"I know." This time, Sigurd did touch his shoulder, and let his hand stay there--a steady, comforting presence. "And I don't think you can ever know how much your acceptance meant to me--*means* to me. It makes home feel truly like home." He tilted his head. "Different from when I was a child," he said thoughtfully. "Much the same, and yet different."  
  
"We're pretty crazy, you know." Bart grinned at him.  
  
"We can't help it," Sigurd said, pouting slightly at him. "It's in our genes. Though, I must admit, the Harcourt genes at least *partially* overrule the Fatima genes."  
  
"Too bad I didn't get a dose of 'em, then." Still grinning, Bart returned his attention to the night sky. "Sig?" he asked, after a pause. "Did you always feel the same kind of freedom you were telling me about?"  
  
"Always? I don't think *anyone* always feels that kind of freedom, young master. It's very much a learned process." Sigurd frowned. "There were times when I felt--rather like you feel now, so horribly constricted and enslaved that I couldn't breathe."  
  
"In Solaris?"  
  
"Solaris?" Sigurd repeated. "No, never in Solaris." He frowned sadly. "I was too well-trained to feel enslaved there; too well-brainwashed."  
  
Bart grimaced. "Sorry."  
  
"Oh, don't be. No... I was happy in Solaris, and I don't think that all of it was because of--because of what the Soylent systems did to me. I was content. I had a purpose. It was when I was younger." Sigurd sighed gustily. "After my mother died and I was living in the castle...."  
  
"You didn't like living in the castle?" Bart wondered.  
  
Sigurd clasped his hands. "No," he said, shrugging slightly. "I really didn't, at the time. I wasn't there because I wanted to be--I was there because of other people's choices. My mother's, my grandmother's, my--our--well, the King's. I didn't feel like anyone particularly wanted me there. Oh, they were kind to me--especially your mother and your aunt. I loved them very much. But... it wasn't until I had returned there *of my own free will* that I felt truly free. You see, Bart, I still went back because I had a responsibility here--but I also chose to go back. And that was the greatest kind of freedom I could have had, in those circumstances. And it has been good enough for me ever since."  
  
"You make it sound so easy," Bart grumbled.  
  
"Do I? It's really not. Does it sound easy, all that I went through?" Sigurd turned a raised eyebrow on him. "Solaris, the brainwashing, the coup?"  
  
Bart rolled his eye. "Well, okay, now that you put it *that* way."  
  
"*You* just make it sound so easy, young master. You have a nasty habit of doing that--narrowing things down to black and white, simple and not simple, your way and not your way."  
  
Bart winced. "Touche."  
  
"Thank you," Sigurd said wryly. "But--I've made myself think, young master. Do you truly wish to be in the position you are in now? Or are you just rebelling against it because you didn't carve it out for yourself?" He sighed, upsetting his bangs. "Do you understand what I mean?"  
  
"I think so, yeah." Bart furrowed his brow. "Is it something I can accept, even though I wouldn't have chosen it for myself in the first place?"  
  
Sigurd nodded, and watched him.  
  
"I dunno." Bart spread his hands, then clasped them again, tightly. "I really dunno, Sig. It's such a damn hard question. It's so much more than a question." He fell silent, considering. "Is it really a question of whether or not I can deal with it?" he said finally. "Or is just about figuring out a way to deal with it, because I sure as hell can't find a way to get out of it?"  
  
"Probably the latter," Sigurd admitted.  
  
"I don't *want* to marry her. God, she's just some--some broad I've never even met before." He paused. "Which is mean of me. It's not her fault, or anything like that. Hell, I doubt she wants to marry *me*, either."  
  
"I doubt so."  
  
"So I guess the only thing to do is get used to it. We're gonna get married, and we're gonna have to have kids, because no one wants a repeat of what happened when Shakhan took over. Lots of people said if Dad had had another kid, it wouldn't have been as easy for that jerk to keep power....." Bart made a face. "So. Marriage and kids. And we can either hate each other, or we can figure out a way to be friends and make the whole deal a lot easier on both of us."  
  
"Was that so hard?" The words were ironic, and Sigurd smiled sadly as he said them. "I am so sorry," he said, "that you are the one who must be put through this."  
  
"So am I." Bart flashed him a grin. "But then I wouldn't be the Bart you love, right?"  
  
"In a nutshell, no." Again, Sigurd reached out and touched him, then withdrew the contact almost immediately. "Do you want to go to sleep now?" he asked. "I'll tell everyone you had a headache."  
  
"Yeah, I think so." Bart drew in a deep breath, coughing a bit past the vodka that still remained in his mouth. "It'd be the truth, too. I'll be up and around tomorrow."  
  
"Good--tomorrow's Yule feast." Sigurd grinned almost childishly. "And God knows we haven't missed that a year of your life."  
  
"God knows," Bart echoed fervently. "My stomach does too." He hesitated, then grabbed Sigurd in a rough embrace. "Thanks, Sig," he murmured against that dark skin. "Love ya."  
  
Sigurd hugged him back hesitantly. "I love you too, young master," he said, ruffling Bart's hair with his breath. "Don't you ever forget it." One more squeeze, then Sigurd released him, and patted his cheek before pushing him off in the direction of the stairwell. "Try not to run into anybody," Sigurd advised him, "or you'll wind a hell of a lot drunker than you are now--*especially* if you run into Jessie."  
  
Bart rolled his eyes. "Don't I know." He flipped Sigurd the thumbs-up sign. "'Night, Sig."  
  
"'Night, Bart," Sig called after him as he disappeared down the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Be careful." He turned back to the balcony, leaned his arms on it.  
  
"Oh!" Startled by the noise, Sigurd turned around to see Bart come bounding back up the stairs, taking them three at a time and panting. "Almost forgot!" Bart gasped, taking a moment to catch his breath. "Silly me. Must be all the vodka." He winked at Sigurd, presented him with something he'd been holding behind his back.  
  
Frowning, Sigurd accepted it--a tiny, messily-wrapped package that squelched and shrank under his hands as he turned it about. "A present....?" he said wonderingly.  
  
"Yeah." Bart crossed his arms defensively. "Don't sound so surprised," he snapped. "Open it, already, before my head pounds itself into two separate pieces."  
  
Sigurd couldn't find it in himself to smile; he tore into the wrapping with care, trying not to ruin it *too* much. He reached into the bottom of the wrapping, frowned when he felt a thin chain brush the pads of his fingers. He glanced at Bart quickly. "A necklace?"  
  
Bart shrugged. "Might be."  
  
He pulled it out, and caught his breath. "My *god*...." he whispered, awe-struck, pulling the necklace out. It glinted before him, a sharp reminder of his childhood--a tiny pendant encrusted with jewels and enscripted with elaborate writing and filigree. He opened the clasp, squinted at the writing inside; an entwined S and E. He looked back up at Bart, who was chewing his bottom lip and trying ferociously to look unconcerned. "How did you get this?" he asked incredulously. "It was lost after my mother died...."  
  
"Wrong. Your *mother's* was lost after she died." Bart stepped closer to him and touched the necklace himself. "My mom gave this one to me," he said, catching Sigurd's eye. "She said I'd know who to give it to, someday. Told me to take very, *very* good care of it and if I didn't, it didn't matter if I was King--she'd have it out of my hide." He smiled self-consciously. "I took good care of it."  
  
Sigurd wiped at his eye impatiently. "I--thank you, Bart. I can't tell you how much this means to me--my mother loved her necklace so much...." He shook his head. "I never knew they gave them to each other," he murmured.  
  
"Now you know." Bart closed his fingers over the necklace. "Merry Christmas, Sig," he said. "I *do* love you, you know."  
  
"I know." Sigurd breathed in deeply. "Merry Christmas."  
  
This time, it was Sigurd who reached out and took him into his arms--and this time, the embrace lasted a very long time. Bart breathed in the familiar scent of his brother and caretaker deeply, holding Sigurd tighter as he felt warm moisture trail down his neck. "I'm so selfish," he muttered. "Sorry."   
  
Sigurd laughed, a half-choked sound, and sniffed loudly. "And I am so emotional," he replied. "God. How embarrassing. You should be the one crying, or--or *something*. I don't know...."  
  
Bart shrugged. "It's okay. I cried enough when I was a kid and you used to hug me a lot, so we're even now." He turned his face into Sigurd's collarbone, closing his eye against that arched bone.  
  
Sigurd stroked his hair gently. "We've made up for it dozens of times already, young master."  
  
"I know."   
  
"Your father would be very proud of you, you know."  
  
Bart nodded and sighed. "I know. Well, I don't *know*, but I think so. I think he'd be pretty proud of both of us, though."  
  
Sigurd touched his eyepatch again. "I wish you could know like I know." He smiled. "You should sleep now."  
  
"I should." Bart glanced at the necklace. "Take good care of that," he ordered. "I busted my ass keeping that in decent condition while we were running around playing pirates and all that. My mom'll roll in her grave if it gets messed up now."  
  
"I shall try," Sigurd promised. Then paused, and wrapped the chain around his finger thoughtfully. "Perhaps we should both try to take care of it, though--just in case."  
  
Bart looked at him, eye narrowed--then looked away as a smile broke out on his face. "Maybe we should."  
  
"And maybe we should both go down together, so no one accosts us." Sigurd smiled at him mischievously.  
  
"Maybe we should." Bart sparkled innocently.  
  
"And if anyone *does* accost us, we shall both act very drunk."  
  
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Bart asked him.  
  
Sigurd nodded. "I'm thinking of crashing in the Gear hangar again. With lots of chocolate, egg nog, and beer. And you?"  
  
"That's basically what I was thinking, yeah."  
  
"Let's go, then." Sigurd fastened the necklace around his neck and grinned. "I'll get the beer, you get the rest, and I'll meet you in the hangar."  
  
"Roger." Bart flipped him a two-fingered salute. "Meet you there. But, Sig, no dressing in drag this time."  
  
"It was just that one little skirt...." Sigurd protested as he began walking down the stairs.  
  
Bart's snort followed him down. "My mother *did* roll over in her grave."  
  
"So did mine, I think."  
  
"Merry Christmas, Sig."  
  
"Merry Christmas, Bart." 


End file.
